I go out on the beach with the rest of the dogs. Catamarans are being steered onto shore and fishermen are hauling in their nets. I think of walking and walking and never turning back.

I turn around and walk back. I shave my legs. I set up the mirror in the sunlight and tweeze the extra hairs from around my eyebrows and above my lip.

At breakfast I say to Lucy, ‘I’m going to Madras for two nights. You’re going to stay here with Mallika. Better be a good girl, okay? If you’re good, I’ll bring you some mutton biryani. Okay?’

Lucia looks away, flipping her blue sock back and forth.

After a while she says, ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘Mummy’s gone to God, Lucy. Remember? Mummy used to look after you and now I do.’

Sometimes Lucia’s eyes fill up with tears, but as far as I can tell this is not connected to any kind of sadness. She will be sitting at the table, or on the couch with one leg hitched up to her ear, tapping and swishing, and she’ll be somewhere else, far away from anywhere. The tears never spill. They just stay there, and then vanish.

As I’m stacking the breakfast dishes in the sink, the dogs set to barking. ‘Who is it, Lucy? Go see!’

When I come out of the pantry, Lucia hasn’t moved.

At the door I see the Sneha Centre van parked at the shed and Teacher hobbling out.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, walking towards her. Normally Teacher doesn’t come without calling first. ‘Did you do something to your leg?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Teacher says, hobbling with increased determination. ‘I fell.’

There is another woman walking behind her – pyramid-shaped with thinning hair. She shuffles respectfully behind Teacher.

‘Lucy, kanna,’ Teacher shouts as she enters the house. She leaves her slippers at the door and steps over the wooden threshold with care.

There is a quality of exaggeration about Teacher that I have come to hate. Even when she speaks, it is as if she has been holding in all her thoughts, waiting for the moment you ask a question, and then she bombards you until you have to cut her off.

Lucia is smiling. After a brief glance at Teacher to establish her identity, she has now looked away, eyes twinkling, tossing the sock back and forth with renewed vigour.

‘Ey,’ Teacher says. ‘Where are you looking off to? I’m here. Lucy, look at me.’

She parks herself next to Lucia on the cushion and wrests away the sock.

Lucia turns to her and starts pulling Teacher’s hair out of her bun.

Teacher giggles. ‘She doesn’t like my hair tied up. Funny girl. I always had to keep my hair in a plait when Lucy stayed with us. I can’t believe I forgot about that. Ey, Lucy, say, “Good morning, Teacher.”’

Lucia repeats mechanically, ‘Good morning, Teacher.’

The other woman has inched into the house. She sits beside Teacher and announces, ‘She looks depressed.’